A Demond And Her Friends
by Kaz Gemcity
Summary: Michael is back in. It had been 48 hours. How much trouble can Michael Westen get into in 48 hours?
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N- It had been awhile, but here I am. Did you miss me? Did any of you say to yourselves, 'Hey, where has Victor gone? She hasn't written anything recently.' Well, I am back. Anyway, after seeing the season finale, you all know that I can not leave something like that. I just can't help myself. I need to write this story, and I hope you will all love it. I know I love the idea, and I do hope that it becomes what I want it to be, because you never know with these types of stories. I would like to than Jesse Greene, before I begin, because I got the title name from her album "A Demond And Her Lovers," though I named the story "A Demond And Her Friends." Okay, I am done monolouging, (YES! I KNOW THAT IS SPELT WRONG! I CAN'T SPELL, DEAL WITH IT!) I might diolouge for a moment, but I don't think so. Okay, here we go._**

_"You can't run away from this Michael."_

_"How do you know...?"_

_"Are you surprised?"_

_"Shandel, would it be to much trouble for a straight answer?"_

_"You know me, Michael. I love the game."_

_"Then let's play Monopoly."_

_"Ooh. Harsh. There's no need to be rude, Michael."_

_"Concentrate, Shandel. How much pressure am I facing?"_

_"Besides the entire Norwegian government coming after you?"_

_"Yes, besides that."_

_"Well, I will be coming after you, along with everyone in my operation."_

_"Why are you telling me this?"_

_"Because the bad guys never seem to grasp the concept of being subtle."_

_"So you're just filling a stereotype?" _

_"I have a reputation, Michael."_

_"So do I, Shandel."_

_"Michael, if you walk through that door, I will shoot you."_

_"No you won't."_

_"Are you really going to put your pretty, little head on the line based on an incorrect assumption?"_

_"Ahh, that would be a no."_

_". . ."_

_". . . "_

_"Snapping, Michael? "_

_"It works everytime."_

_"How much prep did you have to do, to get the explosives in place? How long did it take? Who do you have helping you? How are you even out of Miami?"_

_"Some questions are better left un-answered."_

_"You won't do this. You won't let me die here."_

_"Like I said, I have a reputation."_

_"Yeah, one that includes a soft spot for children and old ladies. Or was that all just a cover to keep Fiona and your mother happy."_

_"Goodbye, Shandel."_

_"You can't run from me, Michael. This isn't over."_

_"It is over, for both of us."_

_"We will meet again, Michael."_

_"Write me a Christmas card."_


	2. Chapter 2

_Forty - Eight Hours Earlier_

_Washington D.C_

I looked at the man in front of me, not fully comprehending what he had just said. It took me a moment to realize that he was still talking.

"Welcome back, Mr. Westen. My name is Tom. Come inside, we have much work to do. You need to prep, not to mention be briefed on your cover, and meet your support team." Tom looked at me expectantly.

"What about my mom and Fiona? Where are they? What did you tell them?" I demanded, keeping my voice even despite the mix of emotions that I was feeling.

"Ah, that's right. Michael Westen: family man. You can drop the act now, Michael." He said snidely, but after a glance at the look on my face, he continued speaking in a more polite tone.

"But to answer your questions, Mrs. Westen and Ms. Glenanne are still in Miami. They were told that your presence was required elsewhere, and you would contact them when it was practical for you. As for Mr. Axe, because I'm sure that was your next question, he is fine. Still in Miami, still drinking, and still hitting on married women. He has been told the same thing as your mother and girlfriend." He finished, and looked up and down the street nervously.

"She's not my girlfriend. What about Jesse?" I asked, unease prickling on my neck.

"Mr. Porter is currently at an undisclosed location prepping for his own mission. Only the people with the top-most security clearence know where he is." Tom paused for a moment.

"We really should get inside, Mr. Westen. My boss wants to speak to you and we all have work that needs to get done." He clucked his tongue lightly, as if I was a young child and he a disappointed parent. I already didn't like the wannabe CIA agent.

"Do you have a last name Tom? I mean, it is only fair that I know just as much about you as you know about me." I smiled at him, though there was nothing friendly about the grin on my face. Tom shivered, whether from cold or from fear, I do not know.

"Anderson. Tom Anderson. I am Jackson Walcott's minor - second assistant." I nodded, quickly translating the CIA slang. Anderson worked for Walcott. He was the lowest of four assistants Jackson had. In other words, the man worked nine to five hours and had never fired a gun, much less been shot. He was a harmless gofer.

_Tom Anderson_

_Jackson Walcott's Minor - Second Assistant/ Wannabe CIA Agent/ Harmless Gofer_

"We should go inside Mr. Anderson." I said, making a face that I hoped appeared friendly and kind, not at all like I just wanted to get to the root of why I was here. Which of course was exactly what I wanted. Tom nodded and opened the glass doors behind him.

I closed my eyes and stepped into a room with bland white walls and a dull gray carpet. I breathed in the filtered air and I knew. I knew that the air in this building had been tested for any trace of chemicals. I knew that the heat was set at exactly 72. 3 degrees. I knew that every man in his gray suit, and every woman in her black dress, every person in the semi-crowded room was discreetly watching me.

_As a spy, you get used to being in uncomfortable places, whether it be a cave in Nigeria or a cheap motel room in South Africa. As a burned spy you get used to constantly staying where you don't want to be. Like a loft in Miami. But as an ex-covert operative being given your life back you accept that sometimes they want you comfortable so that you are more likely to do what they want. At that point it is very important that you keep all your senses on high alert. Pay attention for ticks, signs that people are lying, and watch for the way subordinates act if their boss walks in._

I could tell that whoever just walked into the room was El Heffe. The Boss. The One Who Wanted To See Little Old Me. So I did what any possibly ex- ex- covert operative would do. I put on my best poker face and smiled cheekily. But while I was doing this, I also scanned the room, looking primarily for whoever had just walked in, but also taking account of all exits and possible weapons. My personal choice was a metal Modern Art vase filled with tall lilies.

I recognized a man as different the moment my eyes found him. He put our an air of superiority. People toward him as he walked by them, clearly on his way to me, and then furiously busied themselves in paperwork. He was about my hight with short black hair. When our eyes met the curiosity in his eyes was as visible as I'm sure it was in mine. The man quickened his stride and was standing in front on me in seconds.

"Mr. Westen, it is nice to finally meet you." He held out his hand, which I took, and we shook hands.

"I have heard so much about you." He continued. I let my smile falter.

"I hope you don't believe everything you hear Mr . . . ?" I said, smiling fully again.

"Walcott. Jackson Walcott." Ah, so this was the man in charge.

"Nice to meet you Mr. Walcott. Your friend Mr. Anderson here, has been nothing but helpful." My words but a relieved smile on Anderson's face.

"I am glad to hear that, Mr. Westen. And please, call me Jackson." I nodded while studying the man's face. His smile was forced, his palms sweaty. So he was uncomfortable around me. I could use that.

"Of course I don't believe everything I hear, Mr. Westen. It really is a pleasure. Though maybe we should focus on business and talk later?" He asked, his words quick and percise. Even nervous to be around me Walcott played to former - spy - now - honored - desk - jockey - slash - beaurocrat part well. He would be easy to manipulate, if I needed to do so. A glorified mark.

_Jackson Walcott_

_El Heffe/ The Boss/ The One Who Wants To See Michael/ Former Spy/ Honored Desk Jockey/ Beauocrat/ Glorified Mark_

I smiled at him again. Best to keep him happy until I needed him.

"Of course." I gestured for him to leave the way. As we were walking toward an elevator I turned my head and winked at all the people who were now openly staring at me.

Maybe I'll send them a Christmas card.

**_A/N - Just to be clear, non of my information on the CIA is any way accurate. I do not know if there is a such thing as a 'minor - second assistant' or if there is, what their job is. So to re-cap DO NOT USE ANY OF THE INFORMATION YOU GET FROM THIS OR ANY OF MY STORIES TO INFILTRATE THE CIA, NASA, NCIS, NASCAR, OR ANY OTHER AMERICAN (OR OTHER GOVERNMENT) FACILITY! Thank you._**


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N- Hey everybody. This is the last update for all of my stories! *Jumps up and down. Spins in circles. Acts generally like a happy idiot.* Ahem. I hope you're all as happy as I am. I know it's taken awhile, and I'm excited to finally have accomplished it. Ummm, so this is where the story is going to go kinda AU since the season premier is obviously different from what I've written. Sooooo, that's it. Love you all. Follow me on twitter (V_SteckerEpps)_**

I followed Jackson through a series of hallway, counting my steps and memorizing turns, just in case. It wasn't long before we reached an office, Walcott's name clearly on the door.

"Please, step inside Mr. Westen." He said, opening the door with a keycard and holding it open for me.

Glancing quickly around, I did as he suggested. The room was bland. Tan carpet and off-white walls. In front of a large wooden desk there were two brown leather chairs. With the exceptions of a few picture frames on Jackson's desk, the rest of the room was bare.

"You should think about redecorating." I suggested, sitting in one of the brown chairs as if i owned the place.

_One trick to looking calm and relaxed in any given situation is to actually be calm and relaxed. If that isn't possible act confident, snarky, and sarcastic. _

Jackson looked around as if noticing the color-scheme for the first time.

"I suppose you're right." He laughed lightly. I grinned, and followed him with my eyes as he sat down behind the desk.

"So, decorating tips aside. Why am I here, Jackson?" I asked, in only a slightly patronizing tone.

"Well isn't it obvious, Mr. Westen? The Agency requires your services." He smiled nervously and I had to suppress the desire to slap the grin off his face.

"Just like that?" I demanded, my voice going cold. His smile fell and he paled slightly.

"Yes. Just like that." He stammered. I shook my head but let the subject drop. There was plenty of time to find out what I wanted to know.

"What's the mission?" I demanded. Flustered, Walcott pulled a file out of a stack on his desk.

"A heroin dealer in Miami needs to be taken care of. He's been causing trouble with his shipments. They sometimes interfere with CIA classified shipments." He read, before handing the file over.

I smiled a little to myself. Not a word of this file was redacted. Despite his stressed appearance Jackson Walcott had some obvious pull.

"What's his name?" I questioned, reading through the file myself.

"Carmello." Jackson answered, and my head snapped up.

"Is that a problem, Mr. Westen?" He asked innocently. I got the sudden feeling that this man knew much more than he was letting on.

"Not at all." I spit out. File in hand, I stood up and reached out to shake Walcott's hand.

"I'll be in touch, Mr. Walcott." I said, as nicely as I could manage. Instantly the flustered man was back, his confidence gone.

"How will you...?" He questioned. I held up his wallet and slowly pulled out a business card. Tossing the wallet on his desk, I showed myself out of the room without another word.


End file.
